School, a Sherlock fanfic
by sherdocwho
Summary: Seven year old Sherlock is made to go to a public school, where he faces John Watson, Anderson, and Jim Moriarty for the very first time. Alternate timeline. This is my very first Sherlock story. Please review and leave some constructed criticism.
1. Chapter 1

School

A Sherlock fanfic

It was Sherlock's first day of school. He was generally nervous, on account of the fact of it being a public school. Father was making him go. Mean, mean father. Sherlock's father was not particularly kind to Sherlock, he was different, and different was not good. Mycroft was good, smart, and normal. Sherlock was… different. That was really the only way to put it. It was in the way he looked, the way he seldom spoke, and the way he somehow knew things. Every child says "yes I know mummy" but Sherlock meant it. (Of course Mycroft did this too, but knew when to hold back.) So Sherlock's father had figured the only way to "normalize" his son was to put him with other normal children. That and he knew how Sherlock loathed socializing.

Sherlock was made to take the bus, another thing his father knew he hated. He boarded cautiously, avoiding the stares of other children whose own lives were nothing compared to his. They stared because they all expected some kind of snob, or perhaps an outgoing rich boy who shared everything. Not a shy, messy haired child. Not Sherlock. Almost all the young boys and girls had an older sibling who knew of Mycroft, all were expecting better. Not this, not Sherlock. Sherlock slowly made his way towards the back of the bus, noticing keenly the stares and head turns. What were they expecting, a speech? "Hello, I'm Sherlock. I'm 7 years old and this is my first time riding a bus. He almost giggled in spite of the situation. An empty seat was quickly taken by the young boy, who was still the centre of attention. He sunk low, hoping everyone would just forget about him. He knew it was because they were expecting him to be… grand. That's what rich stereotypes were after all. Pompous, loud, outgoing, mean, super generous, extravagant. Sherlock was none of that. He didn't want anyone to expect more.

The bus finally got to school. Sherlock was very grateful he was in the last seat. He didn't like not being able to see someone who could see him. As he approached the school, he noticed more and more people staring. He knew why. He wished he could be all the people wanted him to be. He wished he could please his father. But no, he would be Sherlock for now, maybe when he grew up he would be someone different.

His first class was pretty easy, considering. Sherlock began to have high hopes. Perhaps he could survive. How social was school anyway? His second class was even easier, as Sherlock began to gain confidence. Of course he could solve a few simple maths. Of course he could write a short story by the end of class. Of course he could- what was that bell for?

"Off you go, have some fun! It's lunch time!" the teacher crooned. Lunch… Sherlock thought. Lunch was when people ate. Who had fun eating? A memory surfaced. Schools on the telly also had play during lunch. He didn't want to play. He would just eat, and then go back to class. A sudden speech pattern broke him away from his mind.

"Well go on Sherlock! Go have a fun lunch time!" Sherlock stared at the woman. He almost wanted to ask why she spent hours at night crying, or how she thought she could be a teacher when she clearly had never had a child or how she thought being super happy would make up for her previous drug history. But he was Sherlock, and he had a father. A father who would punish that kind of behaviour. He silently obeyed, not wanting to cause trouble.


	2. Chapter 2

Sherlock picked a table in the very back of the lunch room, still wishing there were less… _kids_ here. He wondered what he looked like. No, no Sher. It's not good to think that way. Or so his brother Mycroft told him. We must not care what others think of us. That's what he kept in his mind. Sherlock decided today he might eat though, perhaps to seem the least bit normal. His mother had thankfully packed his lunch. Good food. He could tell. Of course he could. He was Sherlock. Dweebles of strung together thoughts made their way into his brain. He drifted further and further from reality.

"Hey!" another sudden speech pattern. He did not enjoy being broken from his thoughts. Sherlock turned his head to stare with chilling eyes at this intruder. He turned to find a boy, with an annoying haircut, annoying glasses. The boy stared. Sherlock stared. "You're in my seat." Sherlock said nothing, returning to the many wonders of his lunch box. "Get out. You're in my seat. I sit there, every day, from 12 to 1. Sherlock thought, his mind racing. _This boy obviously thought he was smart, very smart. He also liked things to go his way, as most everyone that age did. Name… name… hm… _Sherlock looked at the boy.

"Uh… what are you staring at me for!? You look dumb." Sherlock pondered. _Anderson… who does he think he is? _

Sherlock decided to make a stand. His voice was a bit underused, (he preferred not to speak, he could, but he preferred not to.) so it came out crackly at first. "12 to 12:45."

"What?" Anderson stared at him with a particular face of annoyance, disbelief, and dislike.

"You don't sit here from 12 to 1; you sit here from 12 to 12:45. It's obvious" he stated in a matter-a-fact tone. "_Anderson_." He mocked.

"But… how…" Anderson caught his breathe. "I didn't tell you my name yet!" he looked at Sherlock disgusted. "You're evil!" and with that, Anderson took his leave.

_Running off to tell others I suppose_. Sherlock went back to his lunch, surprisingly unaware of what was really about to happen.


	3. Chapter 3

**Authors note: Short chapter, just a bit of a character introduction. please review, tell me if anyone seems out of character, or if anything needs editing. thanks to my one follower haha. :)**

Anderson, being 6 and a half, and somewhat of a smart aleck, was very confused by this new boy. He was smarter than Anderson, and Anderson couldn't allow this. He decided to do anything, anything at all to put this boy down. He could start with the fact that the boy could read minds. That must be evil. And evil was to be beaten, beaten by an equal. Who was the equal to this- this thing? It wasn't hard to figure out. Anderson knew of someone…

. . .

"_JIM_! Please, pay attention." Jim looked up from his voodoo doll. He knew art had ended at least… 15 minutes ago. Of course he knew. Just like he knew that the teacher had recently gotten divorced, and that voodoo dolls didn't really work. But it was fun to think that you could decapitate an enemy from afar. So very fun. "JIM." Moriarty was snapped out his thoughts. He stared at the teacher.

"Yes miss? Or should I say _ms_? Judging by your recent divorce, it would be more appropriate." The teachers eyes widened, and she started to mumble incoherently. The poor girl only told a few. It had been a rather brutal divorce, both sides were armed. She had lost custody, of almost everything. Jim knew this, but didn't want to break the teacher completely. She shook her head. Jim must've overheard from another teacher. Yes that must be it. It _must_ be. Jim grinned wickedly. He knew what she was thinking.

"Now Jim, you know how we hate distractions. That was your second warning today. One more and it's off to the office with you." Jim thought.

"Alright…" he drawled out the word. "I'll be a good little boy." He smirked.

The teacher, not knowing if Jim was joking or not, continued with her lesson. Jim continued with his voodoo doll. In another classroom, Sherlock Holmes continued knowing the questions and answers before the teacher said a thing. And in another building, far away, Mycroft Holmes continued worrying about his younger brother.


	4. Chapter 4

**Just a sort of backstory, to transition to another backstory, to transition to the first ****_real _****moriarty scene. Please reveiw, let me know if there's anything to edit!**

Mycroft was father's favorite. Of course. He was smart, and always told father how to get things going his way. Mycroft did well in school, so he got to choose, private or public. He made friends with children whose fathers were big, rich, and important. He made his father sound good. He made his father look smart, just by being smart. Mycroft knew how to bend people to his will, to his father's will. Sherlock… Sherlock didn't know yet. He knew how to tell you your life, by your clothes, by shaving foam behind your ears. That annoyed people.

Once, Sherlock had escaped from the house. That was before, before Mycroft knew he had so much going on in that little head, before father hated him completely, before the drinking. Sherlock was about 4, the world was new to him, and his head was full. He had to let it all out. Somehow. So he toddled on down the street, until he was stopped by a concerned young woman. She looked down at the strange little boy, who looked up in turn, and analyzed her with piercing, cold, green eyes.

"_Are you lost little one? Do you need help?"_ the boy stared at her harder. Jumbled thoughts ran through his brain, telling him all about her. They pushed his mind around, pressing at all corners of his head. The boy fell to his knees, clutching at his little locks, pulling at the black curls. The woman knelt down beside him.

"_Are you ok?! What do you need?" _Sherlock looked up. His eyes widened, and the words pressing at his mouth could no longer be held in. His mind was so full; it had begun to spill around the edges, pouring out onto the paper that was speech. Sherlock not only told her about her life problems, he told the whole plaza of people about her. He yelled out, and yelled and yelled and yelled until his voice was hoarse. By that time he was home, at his big mansion, in his big room.

His father got hundreds of calls each week, from the poor woman's family. The man couldn't cope. His wife was always at work, Mycroft was always at school, and Sherlock was always there, reminding him of the embarrassment caused when his screaming son was returned home. His only escapes were bottles of whiskey and vodka. He drank until he couldn't hold a bottle to his lips anymore, and then crashed around the house. Sherlock always had the sense to stay in his room during that time. But he got bored. So very bored…


	5. Chapter 5

**This story is going to be more complicated then I thought. I'm turning out to be more of a moffat... what I do is i think of an amazing idea, and the only way it fits in to another amazing plot is through a long explanation. sorry :3**

One day Sherlock tried to get out again. His father caught him, and tried to hold back his hand from making contact with Sherlock's face. The little brat had disobeyed yet again. What he didn't know was how busy Sherlock's brain was. It was still teeming, and Sherlock needed to say something, to talk until there was nothing more to explain.

What he also didn't know was the fact that Sherlock had to let it out now, and the only person to know everything about was his father.

Sherlock sniffed. "You've been with another mummy!" The young boy looked surprised. He didn't really understand the concept of 'cheating' but he knew that more mummies could make one jealous.

The man in front of Sherlock looked surprised. Sherlock was talkative to family members, his father knew this. Somehow, the twerp would blurt out about this. Sherlock's father couldn't let that happen. So, on a burst of very bad impulse, he swung. His large hand made contact with Sherlock's small face. Sherlock made no noise. He was surprised.

So was his father. He hadn't meant to swing. But it felt so good. It was another way of coping with pain and the anger. Sherlock was on all fours, looking at the ground, eyes wide, a red welt beginning to form on his cheek. He suppressed a lump in his throat, and his eyes began to sting. That was one of the most amazing things about Sherlock. He never cried. Ever. So he didn't know what it felt like. He just knew he didn't want to cry. He stayed put as his father slowly backed off, turned, and quickly walked away.

Sherlock's father, Siger, was afraid. Sherlock would tell Violet, and then their marriage would go downhill from there. Siger knew how his wife would react. He could almost imagine her hugging her son to her chest, packing her bags, and leaving him. The whole town would think him stupid. He would be disgraced. But he couldn't hit Sherlock again. That would ensure the brat tattling on him. Siger Holmes would have to wait. Wait and see if this form of discipline really worked. Oh lord he hoped it did.

Sherlock was in his room again. He didn't know what to do. He was scared. Father had hit him. It hurt. He thought. Why did father hit him? He was just telling father about last week. Last week when mummy was out, Sherlock was asleep, and Mycroft was away at camp. Father was here, with another mummy. That wasn't nice. Perhaps father didn't want him to tell the other mummy that father already had a mummy, and that mummy was Sherlock's as well. Perhaps father didn't want Sherlock's mummy to know. Sherlock pondered for a bit. He touched his cheek gingerly. He decided not to come out for awhile.

That's when things got 'a bit not good…'


End file.
